


The Land That Made Us Refugees

by Magpiie



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21804361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magpiie/pseuds/Magpiie
Summary: Trying to survive the grating green cheer of St Patrick's Day, Sweeney makes an unexpected friend in a bar. They fill him in on everything he's missed.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	The Land That Made Us Refugees

**Author's Note:**

> "Thousands are sailing  
> Across the western ocean  
> Where the hand of opportunity  
> Draws tickets in a lottery  
> Where e'er we go, we celebrate  
> The land that makes us refugees  
> From fear of Priests with empty plates  
> From guilt and weeping effigies  
> And we danced to the music  
> And we dance" - Thousands are Sailing, The Pogues

"Go raibh maith agat," a voice beside him said to the barman sliding a pint of stout across the bar, and Sweeney paused with his glass half to his lips. It had been a long time since he'd heard that language from another person's mouth - besides perhaps Brigid's, whose voice was now not quite any one thing but a blend entirely her own. She had forgotten as much as he had, and filled the gaps with new things that he enjoyed but didn't really understand. He had just let the gaps sit empty.

Sweeney set his drink down and glanced at the woman next to him out of the corner of his eye, then watched the swirling patterns settle in her glass until there was a crisp divide between black beer and white foam.  
"Gaelige?" he asked, trying to sound casual. The woman looked a little surprised, then broke into a friendly grin.  
"Tá," she affirmed, holding out her hand. He hesitated a moment before shaking it. "Is mise Grainne."  
"Grainne," he repeated. "An ghrian." He pursed his lips as some distant memory surfaced. "Cormac mac Art had a daughter by that name." That was so long ago that the story had started to crease and tear in his mind like the pages of some old neglected tome, but he could definitely remember her. She had been selfish and willful in a way that reminded him of a certain someone else.  
"Lover of Diarmuid," the woman added slowly. He studied her face for a moment, but there was no flicker of familiarity, no whiff of anything ancient or divine from her. Just a woman, a stranger. "I'm impressed. Not many know that story." 

He offered a restrained smile before taking a drink of his whiskey and coke. The barman had raised an eyebrow when he had ordered Jack Daniels - in an Irish bar, on St Patrick's day. The establishment wouldn't have been his first choice - most years on March 17th, he tried to tuck himself into the darkest corner of the least Irish establishment he could find and drink rum until the day was over - but Laura had insisted again and again and fuck if he could say no to her when it really got down to it. The barman had offered him Bushmills, and that had needled at him for some reason, and he had gruffly repeated his order and been served with disgust. Then Laura had gone to buy cigarettes, and he had been stuck here waiting for her ever since.

The woman beside him spoke again, cheerful and bright as a bell. "Who's your team?" He followed her gaze to the television behind the bar, where an old sport was being played out. It had been a haze in the background that he'd elected to ignore, but now he realised that he recognised the hurley sticks flinging a little ball up the field. They were a little more refined than in his day, and the players were all in bright county colours, but the rules seemed near enough the same. A smile quirked in the corner of his mouth.  
"Hm. Neither." They both watched for a little while. "When did they all start wearing helmets?" A touch of confusion crept into her easy smile.  
"About a decade ago," she answered, and he didn't turn to look at her but soaked in every syllable she spoke. The old tongue had changed, but he could still recognise the lilt at the heart of it. It still brought back memories of rolling hills and fierce rains, of hard times and harder folk, of drinks by the fireside and glorious battles and High Kings. "You been in the States long, then?"  
"Too long," he murmured. "You?"  
"Just visiting. Lecturing at the college here. Irish history." He turned just slightly to study her over his shoulder.  
"That so?"  
"Aye. Post-Famine, mostly."  
"Hm. I heard about that one. After my time, though." Her smile tightened, but didn't falter.  
"You more interested in ancient history?" She lifted her hand to tap a finger against the design on her glass, a golden harp above the bright white lettering: Guinness. "Brian Ború?" 

He stared at the image for a long time, feeling like part of him was still in the bar drinking a shitty Tennessee Whiskey and another part was somewhere else entirely.  
"Brian Ború. He was the end of it all." His voice was distant. When he looked back at the woman sitting next to him, her expression was warm with an amused curiosity. A defensive anger rose in him, that some stranger might show him pity for being all washed up and forgotten. But there was something comfortable between them, a kinship unique between two people who have walked the same roads and known the same skies, and his desire to speak to her won out over the itching desire to leave.  
"Not quite the end," she said gently. "But things were certainly different after that. They're even more different now." There was a packet of bright yellow plastic on the bar in front of her - a brand of potato chips he didn't recognise - and now she tore it open and tilted the open bag towards him. With a grateful little nod, he took a couple of crisps. They were flavoured with cheese and onion, and tasted little like any of the American snacks he'd gotten used to. "Weird how we made potatoes our symbol." The woman studied the cartoonish potato-man on the packet with a wry smile. "Brits took all the other crops, left us with only potatoes. And then the potato crops all died. But we still love potatoes! Potato bread, fried potatoes - and good old Mr Tayto."  
Sweeney studied the malformed mascot and quirked an eyebrow at her.  
"The chips are fine. That thing is a monstrosity."  
"You never had Tayto before?" she scoffed with mock horror. He shook his head, and she squinted at him. "Which county're you from?" He ignored her.

"What happened then?"  
"Hm?"  
"After the Famine." She studied him for a few moments with suspicion, but not unfriendliness, and then her eyes softened and her shoulders slumped.  
"Well, half the country came here." She took a long sip of her pint, then briefly recounted the conflict, the failed Rising, the Troubles in a part of the country messily bordered off - at several points she paused, expecting him to at least have some awareness of some of these events, but his expression gave nothing away. After she'd covered all the major events she told him happier stories, frivolous little morsels about song contests and sports fans. She even talked a little of her own life - her parents who owned a farm, who brother who'd gone to Australia. When she was done she went quiet for a little while, waiting for him to comment, but he didn't. His gaze was far away, and if he noticed her staring at him with shameless fascination, he made no indication of it. Finally she cleared her throat. "You know, if you're ever back home, there's a great little museum in Clare. I think you'd enjoy it, all that history. In the summer they run a Feile Lughnasa. It's some craic." His gaze slid back to her and she turned away with a little smile to sip at her Guinness and catch the end of the hurling final.

The door to the bar squeaked open and Sweeney glanced over. Somewhere along the way Laura had been gifted some hideous green feather boa, and she pointed to it with a mischievous grin as she strode towards him. He rolled his eyes. Later, he would use it to yank her around by the neck until she got frustrated and gave it away.  
"You ready to go?" she asked, and then she caught the eye of the woman sitting next to him. "Oh. Friend of yours?"  
"She's not one of them, if that's what you're asking," he said flatly under his breath as he rose from his seat. Laura studied him for a moment, then watched wordlessly as he slid a familiar golden coin across the bar to the stranger. "Slán go foill, Grainne. Thanks for the stories."


End file.
